My gravestone could read “File > Close. Do not save changes.”
I’d paint this feeling. I’d capture this brief moment. But I cannot capture a moment, or a feeling. Folly.
For most of summer 2019, I was wary of this grey football hanging low in the maple tree. When viewed from a distance, maybe two or three workers would congregate by the entrance. Like animated bar-patrons, seen from the street, telling stories and braving the cold for a smoke in mid winter. But get closer,Continue reading “The hornet nest”
“We shall have our little day.” . . . Dororthy Parker’s opening line. She was brilliantly/bluntly poeting the inhale and exhale of romantic relationships and I can relate. All of mine, thus far, too, have fallen to an imbalance of desire. However the sentiment applies to most things. A spark and a fizzle; a bestContinue reading “Recurrence”